


A Little Bit Caught (in the Middle)

by kitsune_kitana



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Dominance, Humiliation, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't exactly have him by the balls, but it's effectively the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit Caught (in the Middle)

It's not that Eames generally enjoys the humiliation on its own, not in the same way that Arthur enjoys humiliating him.

Eames knows he's always been liberal when it comes to getting off--the how, when, and why, didn't matter so much as the churn of pleasure growing low in his stomach and the sweet release against another body. When Arthur first approached him with a length of soft, woven rope, Eames had naturally assumed the smaller man, so bloody proper and held together with all his buttons and ties and pins, had wanted an excuse to have someone else take control. He's really no stranger to this kind of thing. He knows the effect he has on people with his thick arms and his gruff voice. Eames certainly had his share of lithe twinks asking to be cuffed to the bed before he fucked into them, or girlfriends he'd brought to orgasm over and over again with a careful hand around their throats.

So, when Arthur had indicated that the ropes were meant for Eames, he was intrigued.

As these things tend to progress, ropes led to blindfolds, then to plugs and dildos, which led to floggers, and at some point Eames realized, as he found himself crawling across the floor, arms cuffed behind him, trying to catch Arthur's cock in his spider-gagged mouth, that maybe Arthur was getting off a more on the idea of Eames abasing himself on his knees than actually having Eames' lips around his dick.

For him, it had everything to do with the spots of red that appeared high on Arthur's cheeks as he watched Eames squirm, or the press of Arthur's leaking prick against his belly when Arthur had Eames over his knee, landing firm slaps against his ass. He loved the way that Arthur's pulse sped up when he was fucking Eames with their toys--a blue vibrator, or the glass butt plug--making him beg until Arthur gave him permission to come.

The textbooks would say these impulses derived from an effort to recover from a traumatic childhood divorce, or to regain the power differential from years of playground bullying. Eames thinks the textbooks are utter shit. From what he can tell, any minor sadistic tendencies aside, Arthur's desire comes from nothing more twisted than his curiosity to see under what increasingly sordid circumstances could Eames still manage to get himself off.

This time, he can tell Arthur is in one of his moods when Arthur strips him without removing any of his own clothing. He pushes Eames' hands away from the collar of his button down, a non-verbal warning for him not to interfere, each undone button ratcheting the tension in the room up a notch. Arthur makes quick work of his slacks and briefs, tossing them into a corner before standing back to stare him down.

Bravado is his first reaction. Eames is aware what he looks like, that's he's firm, and pleasantly muscled. Eames can see Arthur's gaze lingering between his legs, on his nipples, his mouth. It's enough that he instinctively wants to preen, to push his chest out and arch his back, maybe spread his legs a little wider. This first game is simple, and Eames already feels himself hardening at the vulnerability of being nude while Arthur is still wrapped up neatly in beautifully tailored Italian wool.

Arthur makes first contact by grazing the tips of his fingers over Eames' nipples, so softly that goosebumps spread over his skin. He catches Eames' eyes as his fingers close on the nubs, and Eames knows better than to look away when Arthur begins to roll them between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently at first, then harder when Eames' dick starts to twitch in interest.

"I was watching you work out today." He's rubbing the pad of his thumbs over each peak of flesh, nonchalant.

"Oh, were you now. Did you enjoy what you saw?" Eames grins, which quickly turns into a grimace as Arthur digs a nail against his tender skin. He can see where it leaves a crescent-shaped mark when Arthur relents.

"I liked watching the sweat drip off your chest," Arthur confesses quietly. Then he rakes his nails from Eames' collar bones to his abs, a move that drives a shudder through Eames' torso, and sets the tip of his dick tingling. He moans when Arthur leans down, one hand braced against the small of his back, to take an erect nipple between his teeth, biting.

"I want to clamp these," Arthur whispers into Eames' mouth when he straightens.

"Please." Eames, ever the thief, steals a taste of Arthur's mouth, so temptingly close, until a hand on his jaw pushes him away.

"Whenever we're here alone, I'm going to work them. We can start with the alligator clamps. I want your titties so swollen--"

Eames moans at this--dear lord, his titties--and Arthur laughs. "Like that, did you? You'll barely be able to wear a shirt, we'll keep them so sore."

Arthur has the flesh of his chest mounded now between his fingers, pulling Eames bodily towards him to shove a knee between his thighs. The feel of Arthur's fine pants against his dick is indescribable, and on top of Arthur's hands strumming pleasure and pain from his chest, Eames can't help but rub himself on Arthur's hip like a dog in heat.

"Do you want to do that for me?"

When Eames takes too long to respond, Arthur slaps his cheek lightly to get his attention, then pushes a thumb into Eames' mouth. "Look at you humping my leg like a slut. Are you a slut for me, Eames? Are you trying to show me how horny you are?"

"Yeshh," Eames says around the digit in his mouth, pursing his lips and sucking it down like it was Arthur's prick, like it was hot, salty skin fucking into his mouth, and he could press his tongue at that spot right under the head and feel Arthur shudder under his hands. Eames can feel the wetness of precome on his own thigh, and he winces mentally at the thought of ruining Arthur's slacks with his overeager emissions.

When Arthur pulls his hand away, Eames licks his lips, then leans in to nuzzle at Arthur's neck. "I'm a slut for you, darling. I want you to give me a hard fuck right here."

"And what should I do about these?”

He can feel Arthur's thumb, saliva-wet, circling his left nipple, around and around the nub of flesh, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the hardened tip.

“I want make them so sensitive that they stay hard under all your clothes. Everyone will see." He smiles at Eames' enthusiastic nodding.

"I want them to see."

His skin feels so hot. He wants Arthur's mouth on his chest. Eames hadn't even really understood how erotic having his nipples played with could be until Arthur had introduced him to the sensation--first with his hands, then with clamps, and on one memorable occasion a flogger. Recalling the feeling of those sharp lashes on his bruised nipples, of Arthur straddling his stomach, rocking against Eames' belly while his wrist flicked those wicked leather straps against his over-sensitive skin, is enough to make Eames whimper. He thrusts his hips to find a little friction, but Arthur only backs away, his hands going to strip off his own shirt, then his pants, then those slinky black briefs that Eames always wants to rip off with his teeth.

"You want them to see," Arthur repeats, folding his clothes and walking over to drape them neatly over a chair. He rummages around in a drawer and turns with a pair of clover clamps connected by a chain hanging from his fingers, and Eames doesn't know what he wants more: the throbbing pain of the clamps or the chance to take Arthur's semi-hard cock in his mouth. Just watching it thickening against Arthur's thigh, the head plump and pink, is enough to make him start salivating. Eames loves how soft that skin is against his lips, knows it'll be slick even before he presses his tongue to the slit at the tip.

Arthur follows Eames' gaze to his own crotch, and gives him a wry look. "You want to show everyone how desperate you are for me? What you'll put yourself through to get me off?" He’s carelessly thumbing the head of his prick with his other hand. It comes away shining and wet and Arthur smears the pre-come across Eames' mouth.

The taste is salty. Eames growls, nipping at the finger before licking his lips clean.

"You wouldn’t be allowed to stop me if I unbuttoned your shirt in front of them to show them how red your titties are. You'll explain to everyone how you clamp yourself every night because I want you to have big, puffy nipples like a girl."

Eames closes his eyes, imagining it. He sees himself standing obedient while Arthur undresses him in public and shows off his tortured chest, explaining that Eames submits because he wants to please Arthur. He can imagine Arthur making him stand still while he digs his nails into Eames' soft flesh, maybe tying his hands behind his back and forcing him to go from person to person, thrusting himself forward for the others to molest as they please. Eames twitches when he feels those elegant hands moving over his dick, moderate strokes from the base to the tip. His knees are shaking.

His mouth opens on a gasp when fingertips rub the head of his cock, and Arthur grins at this. The point man brings one hand down, holding Eames' dick in place by the shaft while he traces the flat of his palm around and around the wet tip, and Eames imagines precome smearing over fortune lines and calluses. His hips stutter, thrusting towards Arthur, and when Arthur's palm rises to his mouth, he licks until Arthur withdraws, wiping his hand down his thigh.

"Put these on," Arthur orders, voice already hoarse. His eyes are dark with arousal. He tosses the clover clamps at Eames, loosely fisting his cock in his other hand.

Eames obliges.

First, he licks his thumb and forefinger, pinching his nipples gently until they're hard again. It feels so good plucking at the saliva-wet and crinkled skin, knowing that Arthur is watching him touch himself. Eames' cock bobs with each press of the pads of his fingers, the cruel sharpness of nails. When they're stiff enough, he grasps the left nub between his fingers, pulling it away from his chest and placing the clamp on the areola. Eames knows Arthur will just punish him further if the clamps come off at a tug, though he personally likes the sharpness of just catching the tips between rubber and metal.

The dull throb quickly travels down his chest to his groin. His hands go to the right side, pulling at his chest, gathering as much of his nipple as he can with his fingers so that he can fasten the clamp deep.

When Arthur raises an outstretched hand towards him, Eames walks over so the chain connecting the two clamps drapes on Arthur's palm, moaning when he twines the metal links around his fingers and the mechanism holding the clamps closed tighten further.

"You still want me to give you a proper fuck Eames?"

"Please," he hisses, bracing himself when the slimmer man fists the chain in his hand. He's torn between slapping Arthur's hands away and begging for more.

"What if I want your mouth instead? If I wanted those cock-sucking lips wrapped around my dick?"

Oh god, Eames loves it when Arthur talks dirty. He groans, imagining Arthur reaching down to yank Eames' head back by a fistful of his hair, fucking into his mouth like it's just a hole that Arthur found convenient to use.

"Whatever you want. Please, darling, let me suck your cock."

"You want to give me your pretty girl lips?"

"Yesss--" Arthur tugs on the chain and the clamps tighten further. "I want to get my lips-ahhh--" Arthur yanks again, warningly, holding the chain taut. "My pretty girl lips on your cock. Please, Arthur, let me suck you."

Arthur releases him so suddenly that he stumbles, two points throbbing hotly on his chest. "So do it."

Arthur still has only one finger hooked on the chain, Eames knows, but when he makes to go to his knees, he's stopped short by the length.

"Arthur," he pants, "I thought you wanted my mouth."

"I do," Arthur replies quietly. "Suck it."

A twist, he thinks as he strategizes how to get his mouth around Arthur's prick without disturbing the implements on his nipples. At first, Eames tries to bend over, keeping his chest level with Arthur's hand. The clamps pull tighter minimally, and Arthur uses his other hand to raise his dick just enough that Eames is able to swipe the tip with his tongue. He tastes salt, then sweet skin, but it isn't enough.

"This is disappointing, Eames."

"If I could, I'd bloody well do it," Eames growls, lunging towards Arthur's dick again only to pull up again with a gasp at the sharp sting. Obviously, a change in tactic is required. He leans forward instead, head against Arthur's muscled stomach, laying kisses on his ribs. "Please, darling, let go. I'll make you feel so good."

The hand wrenching his head back by a handful of hair makes his dick lurch. Arthur's eyes are dark, severe. There's an intensity there that makes him want to get on his knees, makes him want to grovel and beg, to crawl like a puppy until Arthur gives him his cock.

"Please," he whispers, but Arthur shakes his head. There's one interminable moment where their gazes lock, and something in Arthur's normally inscrutable face, some hunger, leaves Eames shaken. Those are eyes that will not tolerate disobedience; that relish his suffering.

Eames doesn't break eye contact as he begins to lower himself.

The clamps grip his tits relentlessly for the first few inches. Eames moans, and his hands go to Arthur's hips to steady himself against the pain radiating from his chest as rubber and metal refuse to give. Something clenches deep in his stomach when Arthur wraps all his fingers around the chain, clearly unwilling to surrender any territory to Eames' rigid, bruised nipples.

Eames bends his right knee, preparing to brace it on the ground, and watches the flush creeping up Arthur's chest, reddening his cheeks. They mirror the redness that must be spreading across his own skin; Eames is familiar enough with these sensations that he knows he'll be sore for days afterwards.

And Jesus-- _fuck_ \--the clamps hurt. The pull is excruciating, almost painful enough to break through the haze of Eames' adrenaline-fueled arousal. When he strains towards the floor, the metal of the clamps creak warningly, and he can see how Arthur has to flex, muscles straining in his forearm, to keep his fist level against the pull of Eames' body. Eames has to breathe deliberately, sucking air in and out of his mouth, in order to fortify himself enough to carry through the next few inches.

"Arthur," he moans, staring into the other man's face. Brown irises are only a faint ring around blown pupils, and when Arthur glances downwards for a split second, Eames' gaze follows. He takes in his stretched flesh, his red and tortured tits, silver chains pulled taut and gripped in Arthur's hand, and it occurs to Eames that it may not be entirely sensible for him to let this kink-hoarding point man work out whatever this was on his body in return for a few painful, mutual orgasms. He can feel his arms trembling with the pain, fingers digging none too gently into Arthur's hips. Sweat is dripping steadily down between his pecs.

Eames has to push for those last few inches, and he feels tears spring to his eyes when his knee finally meets solid ground. He can hardly convince himself to move once he's set it down on the floor, wanting to stay right where he is, swaying gently, but he knows Arthur isn't finished with him yet. So Eames leans back, thighs trembling, lowering his left knee laboriously until it also meets the unforgiving ground.

"Please," Eames begs, arching his back and pushing his chest upwards as much as he can. Arthur's dick is red and wet in front of him, and Eames licks his lips, opening his mouth on a gasp when Arthur pulls the chain even tighter. He rides out the sensation--a pounding pressure that comes in waves emanating from his nipples--until he hears an unmistakable, metallic click, the sound of the clamps indicating inexplicably, unbelievably, that they'd reached their limit. Eames wonders, distracted for a moment, if Arthur had tested these before today. Had he measured the length of the chain against the height of Eames' nipples when he was kneeling on the floor? Or had Arthur tested the load-bearing capabilities of different clamps before buying the ones that could withstand the weight of Eames' body as he struggled to kneel at Arthur's feet?

He's pulled out of his reverie as Arthur, the sadistic minx that he is, drops the chain abruptly, and Eames yells at the sudden increase in pressure against undoubtedly bruised skin, a gutteral sound, curling over--Christ, the clamps, _the clamps_ \--as the links bounce against his chest.

Unmoved, Arthur grips him by his chin while he recovers. One finger probes in Eames' mouth, rubbing against his tongue as Eames is still struggling to catch his breath, before Arthur withdraws it to grip his own dick at the base. Eames opens his mouth instinctively at the motion, his reaction to the sight of Arthur's bobbing dick an automatic impulse, and thinks ruefully at how well the other man has trained him.

"Such a good slut," Arthur murmurs as he feeds his cock into Eames' mouth.

Eames starts sucking, hungry, his pain a function secondary to pleasing the angrily red prick Arthur is fucking between his lips. He can hear himself whimpering on every downstroke at the throb in his chest, twin points of pounding pain radiating into a burn that pools low in his stomach. Eames isn't sure that Arthur is completely aware of his other hand stroking along Eames' cheek, cradling his jaw, rubbing gently behind his ear before fisting in his hair to shove his head down further on Arthur's dick.

He's shaking when he's pulled off, gasping for air, chin wet.

Arthur looks him straight in the eye, mouth open on a moan. He holds his dick right behind the tip and traces Eames' lips slowly, smearing them with spit and precome.

"Do you still want this?" he asks, shifting his grip further back and slapping the head against Eames’ mouth. He can feel where the movement is flicking drops of precome against his face, can’t help but purse his lips, kissing sloppily at the shaft of Arthur’s dick where it makes contact with his skin.

He looks at Arthur's face. It's flushed, sweaty tendrils of hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks--and thinks, _he's beautiful_. He can feel where Arthur's hand has loosened; he’s cradling the back of Eames' head now, half affection, half readiness to continue. Then Eames looks down at the plump, purplish head of Arthur's cock, held so appealingly close, and presses his mouth to it, trying to kiss the delicate slit like he would Arthur’s mouth or Arthur’s ass. He lays sucking, wet kisses along the skin in a way he knows drives Arthur crazy. It's acquiesence enough.

"Stick your tongue out." Arthur's voice is rough, hoarse.

Eames obeys, and Arthur rests the tip of his cock on it, thrusting shallowly.

"You're so good, Eames. So good for me,” he murmurs as his hips move.

Eames allows him a few seconds more before closes his lips carefully, sucking on the head, tongue flicking at the underside. He takes Arthur in deeper, little by little, flattening his tongue to make room for more cock. Soon, the other man is thrusting openly, the full length of his dick sliding in and out of Eames' mouth.

And Eames loves this, honestly. He loves opening up for Arthur to fuck into, feeling that long, thick flesh filling him like it belonged in his throat. He throws himself into it, perhaps too enthusiastically, gagging with a wet, ugly sound on one particularly harsh stroke.

Then Eames is fighting the hand on the back of his head to pull away. He cries out when the movement sets the chain on his nipples swaying again, setting waves of pain from the momentarily forgotten clamps throbbing anew through over-sensitized flesh.

"Are you okay?" There’s concern in his voice as Arthur checks him, a hand rubbing down his back as he leans down. Eames bows his forehead against Arthur' hip, breathing damply into his skin. He's trembling. He can feel the tremors through his shoulders, his arms, and he's afraid that if he gives in now, he might shake apart, or curl up and call the scene off.

So Eames takes a moment, nods his head but doesn't move, and Arthur doesn't push him.

His eyes are closed. He presses his face against the pale skin under his cheek, taking in the smell of sweat, of sex, and of something else that is indescribably Arthur. His throat is sore and his chest is bruised, but the long fingers running through his hair, nails gentle against his scalp, make him want to melt, to open his mouth and his legs and his pain for whatever the other man wanted to take.

"I'm good," Eames finally grits out. "Don't stop."

Arthur tilts his head back for a second, a knuckle under his chin. He's looking steadily into Eames' eyes, searching for something, and Eames guesses that he finds it, because eventually Arthur leans forward to press a quick kiss to his forehead before pulling back. His hand goes back to his dick, stroking with intent, thrusting into his spit-slick palm.

"Fuck yes," Arthur groans as Eames leans his head back in obvious invitation, closing his eyes and opening his mouth. He breathes deeply to steady himself but the wet sounds of Arthur's hand slicking over the shaft of his prick are obscene, and Eames only gets harder imagining slim fingers jacking off that cock he loves so much. That little moan Arthur always tries to bite back when his fingers rub that knot of nerves under the head fills Eames' ears. Arthur comes on his face with a hitched moan, wet jets of come spurting across the bridge of his nose, his cheek, then his mouth.

There's only the quiet sound of Arthur catching his breath for a moment before he wipes the last dribble against Eames' bottom lip, a hand still supporting Eames' head as he slumps against Arthur's leg, face slack with submission and pleasure.

"Finish yourself," Arthur says, and Eames automatically moves to obey, right hand going lazily between his legs. This he can do easily--he's hard enough, feeling Arthur's sticky come on his face, remembering Arthur fucking his throat. His hips thrust up into the motion of his fist. He's sighing at the tightness in his balls, the warm thrum of pleasure low in his stomach, when Arthur leans down, tangling his fingers in the chain of the nipple clamps, and _twisting_.

"Faster."

His hand is rising, forcing Eames out of his slumped, kneeling position. Eames rises with it, straightening his back, then pushing himself up to his knees, following the pressure of the clamps as his fist strips furiously up and down his cock.

"Arthur, please." He hears his own voice crack, but Arthur is relentless.

Eames' eyes are clenched closed and he's balanced on spread knees, back arched as high as he can hold it to take the pressure off his chest. The pain has escalated from a hum to a pounding hurt that thrums alongside the pulse of blood in his dick. Eames swears and swallows against the tightness in his throat, the prickle of tears about to run over. It's all on the edge of being unbearable until Arthur's hands creep over his chest.

"No," Eames pleads. "No, Arthur please, stop--" He clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip just as Arthur releases both clamps on his chest simultaneously.

Everything stops for a second, all noise and sensation suspended. Eames can feel his mouth gaping, as if in disbelief, for a small silent eternity--and then it all rushes back in a flash of searing agony.

Eames can't help the hoarse scream that escapes his throat, wet and throttled sounding. The piercing pain that shoots from his nipples down his spine pushes him over the edge, becoming something else entirely as his dick pulses and he comes and comes into his own palm.

He can't hear anything over the pounding in his ears, but he feels Arthur kneeling beside him and propping him up because his own suddenly slack muscles are no longer up to the job. _This is good_ , he thinks. _I’ll just lay here for now._

When he fades back in, Arthur’s hands are brushing over his forehead, petting his cheeks, and it feels good. One eye cracks open when Arthur takes his hand, cradling it gently and catching his gaze before bringing Eames' palm to his soft, red mouth and licking it clean.

"Jesus," Eames mutters. He can feel Arthur's lips stretch into a grin against his skin, and he lays a gentle kiss there before straightening and pulling Eames more firmly against himself.

"How are you feeling?" Arthur asks, stroking down Eames' throat, past his collar bones then to his chest. He brushes his thumbs lightly over the tips of Eames' nipples, barely touching, then presses in forcefully.

"Fuck!" Eames yelps, back arching up off the floor.

"Shhh," Arthur admonishes, "This'll help. Trust me."

Eames knows it helps reduce swelling and bruising if they can get blood recirculating faster, but it hurts like a motherfucker. He forces himself down, breathing heavily against the unpleasant throb of blood returning to previously clamped skin, and Arthur hums in approval. He presses his smooth cheek against Eames' rough stubble, then turns so their mouths meet, tongue insistent.

And this, Eames thinks with a sigh, is what makes these things worth it. Arthur's hands are on his skin, massaging. He’s sucking gently at Eames' lower lip. His mouth is sweet, and Eames can feel a faint smile on Arthur's face; his heart pounds with the knowledge that he put it there. The others don't see this version of Arthur. Their Arthur is efficient, sometimes cold, and imminently practical. This Arthur relents when Eames cuddles in closer, trying to forestall any attempts at moving, twisting with a whine until Arthur lets him rest his head on his thigh, stroking his cheek softly.

"I've got you," he hears the other man say just as his own eyelids begin to drift shut. He feels Arthur tangle their fingers together, his other hand smoothing across Eames' hair, and the gentle murmur of Arthur's voice as his breathing evens into sleep.


End file.
